Prisoners of War
by Red Bess Rackham
Summary: At least with her, he doesn't have to waste away alone. Haymitch/Johanna. (PG-13 for language and general fandom darkness.)


**Disclaimer: **For entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended. Etc.

**A/n:** After the Girl on Fire ficathon in kolms' livejournal last spring/summer, I sort of hoarded and stashed a wildly long list of prompts to use at a later date. For deathmallow's birthday back in October, I checked said stash for something Jo/Hay as I know that's her jam, and lo and behold, there was one indeed. :D

(Also, this is technically slightly AU as I have Jo and Hay hanging out together during the 74th reapings.)

_Prompt: __johanna/haymitch, there is a charge for the hearing of my heart (from: pearlsque)_

* * *

**Prisoners of War**

The first time he sees her is when she is reaped, and she is just another trembling, doomed kid as far as he is concerned. She's faceless, nameless – name drawn from a bowl, spoken aloud. A body that goes on stage, pretends to be honored that she's been chosen to kill or be killed.

It's supposed to be his job to take stock of them all, to take specific note of who is strong, who is smart, who would be a good ally. But he's done this enough times, there's really no point, is there? He's the mentor for District 12, and everyone knows there's no hope in Twelve.

* * *

The skinny, underfed kids from Twelve want his advice on how to win and Haymitch doesn't understand why they would want to. He can't say a word against the Capitol, not _really_, but if they knew all the trappings and misery that went with winning? Hell, it'd be easier to just step off the platform and be blown to kingdom come before the gong goes off.

But he can't say that, he can't imply that, and even if someone had been bold enough to do so when _he_ was the wiry, desperate kid from Twelve, he still would've done his very best to survive. Because something in him, and in the people of Twelve, refuses to give up. Maybe it's something about struggling every day of your life in the poorest district. Maybe it's something else.

He wouldn't have stepped off the platform, he wouldn't have taken the easy way out, no. He would survive – he _did_ survive. Even if it was actual hell – still is. He is human, he is from Twelve and cannot give up. Even if he wonders minute to minute why he bothers.

"So what do we do?" the little boy asks, and God, he can't be more then thirteen years old at best. "I mean, how can we win?"

Haymitch purses his lips and exhales slow and heavy, the air scraping past chapped lips. "Just survive, kid. That's all you can do."

_And after, if you win,_ he thinks. _You just have to keep surviving._

* * *

The second time he sees her is in the interviews. She's kind of aloof, with calculating eyes laced with fear, and she clenches and unclenches her fingers around the hem of her green dress. Overall relatively forgettable, though he gets the feeling there's potential there, though he's not sure what _kind_ of potential exactly, as she's difficult to read. There's an edge, though, something keen and sharp that she's maybe trying to hide.

He mumbles something to Blight about how it was a mistake to let her appear so bland, how she's probably going to die as fast as _his_ kids this year. Without moving his eyes from the screen as Caesar calls for the next tribute, Blight flips Haymitch the finger, and Haymitch just laughs.

* * *

The third time he takes note of her is sometime around the fourth day into the 71st Games. She's not stupid, she's not weak. But he still isn't convinced she's got what it takes to make it to the end.

* * *

The fourth time he sees her, Johanna Mason has won.

_How about that_.

His kids had their throats slit the second day in, so Haymitch had retreated to his apartments and only showed up for the mandatory check-ins – he did so inebriated however, because it was the one thing they could not control. Or, more properly, didn't bother to control. He was a useless, harmless drunk, and too old and irrelevant for Snow to waste time manipulating anymore. As long as Haymitch didn't do anything crazy, he was essentially left alone to be the lonely, pathetic sack from Twelve.

It was easier that way. For everyone.

(And if drinking himself to oblivion kept the night terrors away, then hell, all the more reason to crack open another bottle.)

She looks less small and shaky than he recalls her being at her Reaping, and she has that unmistakable _dead-_ness clouding her vision; he's observed the same numb expression on dozens of Victors before her.

All the mentors know what it's like to come fresh out of the Arena; it's just that some are better than moving on than others, and Haymitch has never been able to fully banish the demons he created down there. So when her mentors are done bustling around her, and she's waiting to go see her stylist and be done up for her post-Game interview, he catches her eye.

"It's over," she says, her voice so very exhausted. "I won."

He doesn't bother to congratulate her, instead gives her a once over, and says,

"It's only just beginning, sweetheart."

Her eyebrows crinkle slightly in confusion.

And then he finds himself pitying her deeply, and so he offers her the same advice he gives the naïve kids from Twelve:

"Just survive."

* * *

From there, he sees her at benefits and galas and a variety of idiotic events he's forced to attend, being Twelve's only living Victor. He watches her demeanour, observes the way she becomes progressively more cynical, hard, callous. World-weary. Real. He hears about it when her family is killed in an "accident" and with a clenched gut, he remembers the "accident" that befell his family once upon a time too.

She's good at hiding her pain though, and when he pours her a drink, he wonders if he's found a kindred spirit in some sick way. They're both alone, bitter, damaged. And they both have managed to defy Snow, even if it cost them _ever_ so dearly.

* * *

As they go from the aftermath of the 71st, and through her first time as a Victor in the 72nd, they sort of get to know each other in a strange way – he doesn't offer anything personal about himself without a price, and she is the same. She never gives without some take.

"Were you scared?" Johanna asks. She's laying down on the bench with her feet crossed above her, leaning on the wall.

Haymitch chuckles. "No."

She stops tracing lazy circles on the window to glare at him.

"Shit, why'd you ask?" He shakes his head. "Were _you_ scared?"

She smirks. "No."

He doesn't bother to call her out for being a liar. Of course she was scared – of course _he_ was scared. That was back when he was still human, still a kid, still felt things (still slept through the night without being drunk or waking up in a blind panic). Now he tosses back a mouthful of amber liquid and wishes it still burned his throat like it used to. Wonders if he will ever feel anything but bitterness and loss ever again. If he'll feel like anything but a mess and a joke and utterly trapped and wasted.

At least with her, it's not so acute. At least with her, he doesn't have to waste away alone.

She goes back to making shapes on the glass.

"Do you miss them?" he asks, his voice like gravel under boots.

She doesn't need to clarify who he is talking about. "No."

"Yeah," the corner of his lips twitch. "Me neither." He doesn't think of Maysilee. He doesn't think of his mother. He especially does not think of his brother.

He's sure she's not thinking of her family either.

* * *

Johanna leans deep into the couch and drinks straight from the bottle. They're watching the Reapings, impassively making comments on the various innocents being flashed across their screens in the recaps. It's a ritual they accidentally slipped into two or three Games ago.

"He's fucked," she says matter-of-factly.

"I give him eight hours," Haymitch says and she passes the bottle to him.

She snorts. "Generous. He's not making it past the Cornucopia."

"Cynic."

"Realist," she corrects with a bitter half-smile and grabs the bottle back from him. A little bit of the stuff sloshes onto her hand but she doesn't notice.

Twelve is up next, and it's all very dramatic when some girl volunteers for her sister – _no one_ volunteers in Twelve.

"Shit," Johanna breathes, then glances at Haymitch, who suddenly can't look away from the screen when the camera zooms in on the latest Tribute of District 12. He watches the way she straightens a little, the way she is scared but defiant, and shattered but determined and it's indescribable, but she looks _different_, there's something different, and he can't quite grasp it, and maybe it's the alcohol –

"Hay?"

Haymitch blinks, realizing Johanna's calculating eyes are tracing rapidly over his features and the moment is gone, lost swirling away, and he thinks it was never there in the first place. Some blonde kid is called up next and Haymitch sinks back into the couch.

"What?" Johanna tries again.

Haymitch frowns, takes the bottle from her. "Nothing."

This time she doesn't bother to call _him_ out as a liar. Simply waits for him to take a gulp of booze, then removes the bottle from his outstretched hand. Her fingers dust across his when she grasps the glass and they both pretend not to notice.

**-end-**

* * *

**A/n:** Thanks for reading!


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